


Love Drought

by justblaze



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternating Steve / Sam POV, Biracial Natasha Romanov, College AU, F/M, Grad Student Sam, Graduate Students, Grief/Mourning, HIV Positive Character, M/M, Natasha and Bucky are siblings, Race-Bent Natasha, Shitty dads, Skinny Steve, Take your fandom to work, University Setting, engineer bucky, in that 2017 is racist as fuck so far, period typical racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justblaze/pseuds/justblaze
Summary: Sam and Steve are roommates and graduate students both going through dry spells. They go to a Sexual Health event on campus and meet Bucky and Natasha. Steve and Bucky hit it off right away but Natasha stays distant, despite her palpable chemistry with Sam. How will these relationships unfold? What's holding Nat back from connecting with Sam?





	1. Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Sometimes Steve really hated Sam's good judgment. Like now, when he was watching Sam's gorgeous ass and intricate back muscles move up and down on their living room floor. 

"Are you wistfully staring at my ass again? Weirdo."

Totally called out, Steve had to laugh. And frankly, he might as well be honest.

"Yup." He exaggerated the leer. "Wanna come up here and get some big boy?" he asked seductively while batting his eyelashes. 

Sam laughed loudly as he grunted through the rest of his set of push-ups. "Nah man, never again. We shook on it and everything."

So Steve had met Sam while running. They were both in their first semester of grad school at the time and Steve had been, for the first time since adolescence, in a good phase with his asthma. He'd gotten into running, was lifting weights, and the doctors were saying that he might have grown out of some of the most severe symptoms. This lasted a solid, glorious 9 months before he ended up in the hospital for several days with pneumonia. He never bulked up or anything the way he fantasized about as a kid, but he'd put on some weight that looked good on his small frame. Thankfully he kept it, even though he'd never been able to really get into working out consistently again. As evidenced by him sitting on the couch with a sketchbook while Sam kept his admirable figure.

Anyway, the point was Sam, he and Sam had met and had obvious chemistry. It only became clear after a couple awkward dates and some nice but totally unremarkable sex that their chemistry was more platonic than romantic or sexual. Sometimes, though, looking at Sam's gorgeous face and body, he got the urge to check one more time to make sure it wouldn't work out. Sam had felt the same thing form time to time, especially after bad dates or on the rare occasions that he got high. Hence the time they’d had to shake on it and agree to not go down that path again. It never really went all that well and both of them had better prospects for fuck buddies that wouldn't screw up a truly awesome friendship. So they'd agreed, no sex, just friends and roomies. 

So Steve was single. Sooo single. Painfully single. Not that he minded or anything. But goddamn, he would not turn down a good fuck right now. Or a kiss. Or a date. Holding hands. His mind wandered into distinct rom com territory and he shook his head to clear it. 

"So then I'm going to a sexual health event at the school after that."

Steve tried to pretend he'd been listening the whole time and not daydreaming of romantic possibilities with his nonexistent partner. 

"Hmm, sexual health? What like, 'use a condom, make good choices?'"

"Yeah basically, although they take it a little deeper with that these days talking about consent and rape culture and all that. Jen – you remember, the one professor in our department who doesn’t have a personality disorder – went on this big rant at the end of class Thursday about the absence of sexual issues in most psychology and counseling classes and gave us an assignment to go hear this talk and then write a reflection on where sexual health fits into our work."

"Cool. Want company?"

\---

"Actually, yes, that would be amazing, man. You know how I'm feeling about my classmates since the whole white privilege debacle in our seminar last week." Sam felt himself losing some of the tension he’d been holding in his body just thinking about dealing with his classmates again. It would be comforting having Steve there with him.

Sam had lost it, in his very carefully controlled way, after a tough discussion about being systemic oppression and privilege. Steve, fortunately, had worked through the worst of his white fragility and defensiveness in his women's studies minor before they met. He was occasionally still oblivious from time to time but they had a relationship where Sam could call him out and Steve would (usually) get it. So having him there would be a big help from Sam facing his classmates again. Make him look more ‘multicultural man of the world’ and less ‘militant angry black dude.’ 

Sam got dressed and ready to go and did some mental preparations for what might happen. Probably no one would say anything directly. Maybe the sexual health people would talk about those outdated and overblown "black men on the down low give everyone HIV" stereotypes. Maybe they'd look pointedly at him when they talked about HIV or rape. Usually he read as straight, so being targeted for queerness was less likely. Not for the last time, he regretted not applying to an HBCU for grad school. 

\--

Sam and Steve walked into the classroom where the presentation was being held. It was a pretty fancy classroom, actually, with high tech projectors and clean, swiveling seats. Classrooms in the Psych building tended to be decidedly low-tech with decor that could best be described as "90s shabby with a hint of asbestos." Steve chuckled as Sam whispered that observation as they were sitting down. They speculated about what sources of funding would get you a building like this to talk about sexual health. 

"Sponsored by Trojan?" Sam whispered.

"Lelo?" Steve responded quietly.

"Definitely Gun Oil. $19 a bottle my ass."

“Literally”

Sam tried to hide his (very mature) snicker as people seemed to be quieting down for the presentation. Right on time, a young woman with dark curly hair turned around and stepped up on front of the room. She was gorgeous, petite and curvy. 

"Welcome everyone! I'm Natasha Romanov and we are here today to talk about sexual health. Now I know you are mostly graduate students, so I imagine you know the basics on sexual health. But it never hurts to learn more, get updated on the newest research and practices, and to get comfortable talking about sex."

Sam was glad that he was supposed to be looking at her, because he probably would have been staring either way. She was obviously Black, and clearly mixed. Sam wondered about the Russian name. Black and Russian perhaps? He also knew she must get interrogated about her background all the time. His friend Malia from back home had talked enough about her experiences for Sam to know that there were lines there he didn’t want to cross. But he could look right? Her features were striking -- curly light brown hair, light skin, and a spat of freckles across her nose that he could just make out at this distance. Sam wondered if she was a masters or doc student. Maybe she was just visiting the campus. It would be surprising if there was another black grad student on campus and he hadn't met her yet. That was his mistake coming out to bumfuck middle America for a great program and low cost of living while he got his degree; he and the other handful of black grad students on campus had to stick together. The culture shock still got to him and it was part of the reason that he and Steve hit it off -- it was such a relief to be around another New Yorker.

Steve, who was raising his hand, probably to interject with a question about queer culture or the patriarchy. Sam both loved and hated this about Steve and wasn't sure which thing he felt more strongly in this moment.

"Can consent be nonverbal? What would you recommend to make it more clear?"

"That's a great question. Obviously, people don't always talk through their sexual encounters, but we try to emphasize verbal communication for the sake of clarity and to challenge that norm. Why do we think that knowing exactly how someone wants us wouldn't be hot? Now there are some circumstances where nonverbal communication can make the most sense. Maybe you've got a gag in your mouth or maybe when you get really aroused, it’s hard to think or speak clearly. I’d recommend that you talk before and after each hookup and agree to some clear nonverbal signs to communicate when you need to stop or shift. What we really want to avoid is believing that being hard or wet or ‘going along with it’ is enough to signify consent. It’s not – there’s very clear research that people can have physical signs of arousal but not be interested in or enjoying sex at all. Ask the person, not the body.”

Sam was pretty impressed and Steve seemed to be happy with that answer as well. He only asked 3 more questions about cultural norms and the heterosexist White supremacist capitalist patriarchy, which was practically staying silent for Steve. 

At the end of the presentation, a couple of Sam’s classmates came to chat with him and Steve. He knew better than to expect an apology or any acknowledgement of what went down in class, but he couldn’t bring himself to snub them either. Their program was small and he needed allies. Sharon was one of his closer friends from the program, although she distinctly did not have his back when shit when down last week in class and he hadn’t forgotten that. But he could be polite. 

“Oh hey Sam, hey Steve. Have you guys met James? He’s here from the robotics department, he works with Ian,” said Sharon. Sam knew Sharon’s boyfriend Ian from previous department get-togethers. He was honestly pretty nice and not socially awkward like some engineers could be. James, however, did not look like he fit the stereotype at all. He was fit, broad and athletic looking, with a handsome face to match his body. He was honestly pretty hot. But Sam was not going down that white boy path right now. He’d hit his limit with Steve. 

“Hey James, good to meet you, man. Was your department invited to this presentation too? I guess everyone needs sexual health info, huh?”

“No actually, it’s just me. I know Nat, we go way back, so I came to see her do her thing.”

“Oh yeah? She’s a great presenter. I really appreciated the way she pushed back when people challenged what she was saying.”

James chuckled. “Oh yeah, she’s tough. I do not recommend getting in an argument with her. You start out thinking you’re definitely right and suddenly you end up arguing against your own point and trying to figure out how that happened.”

“Boys, are you talking about me?” Sam turned around to see that Natasha had come over and was watching them with one well-shaped eyebrow raised. 

“Great presentation Nat!” James smiled and gave Natasha a quick side hug. 

“Thanks for coming, James. Want to introduce me to your friends?

“Yeah! This is Sharon and her boyfriend Ian. And this is Sam, I just met him but he’s in the same program as Sharon. And this is Steve, Sam’s roommate,” James said, going down the line. 

\-- 

Steve tried not to let his gaze linger too long on James. Steve didn’t really have a “type” per se, there was a lot of variety in the people he’d dated or crushed on. It also depended a lot on personality: he could be drooling over someone physically one minute and then hear them say they supported Trump, for example, and lose every shred of physical attraction. But from a purely physical perspective, his body was decidedly into James’ body. He wasn’t sure he’d felt this level of attraction since that first meeting with Sam. 

“Call me Bucky,” James said and did a quick once-over of Steve, smiling warmly. “Sharon and Natasha call me James, but Bucky is what most people call me.”

Maybe James – Bucky – was into dudes? God he hoped so, this dry spell was really getting to him. 

“So are we still getting a drink?” Natasha asked, turning to Sharon and Bucky, who nodded eagerly. “Do you want to join us?” she asked, turning back to Steve and Sam.

Steve didn’t even have to look at Sam to know that the answer would be yes. It was kind of ironic that studying to be a psychologist seemed to turn most grad students into high functioning alcoholics. Grad school was stressful as fuck, though. Steve’s MFA program was predictably liberal about alcohol and drugs, although people tended to skew more towards weed and the occasional psychedelic than drinking. He wasn’t a big drinker, but liked to nurse a beer at the bar with his friends. Drugs, though, he tended to avoid after a lifetime of complicated medical issues. 

“Yes, definitely,” Steve answered Natasha. “Where are we heading?”

They ended up agreeing on a bar near campus but that wasn’t too pricey, but that carded well enough that very few undergrads ended up there. Luckily it was close enough that Sam and Steve could walk there and then walk back to their apartment at the end of the night. 

Steve ended up chatting with Bucky as they walked and was using every bit of extra energy to try to play it cool. Sam teased him all the time about how easy he was to read. It wasn’t all bad, Steve could attribute at least some of his success in dating to the fact that even without trying, his interest came across loud and clear. But more often than he wanted to, he wished he had Sam’s charm and control. When they met initially, it took Steve a while to discern whether Sam was just a really nice guy or whether he was actually interested in Steve. Sam teased him about his obliviousness to this day. 

“So where are you from, Steve? I don’t think that’s a Midwest accent? New York?”

“No, I’m from Brooklyn. You know, most people don’t catch that. My ma had some of that immigrant anxiety about accents, so she got on me anytime I sounded too Brooklyn to her ears. Her mom came from Ireland and wanted them to fit in here.”

“Yeah, I know that well. I’m kind of a language nerd myself and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get my accent right in English and Russian.”

“Russian?”

“Yeah, mom was American and dad was Russian, so I grew up learning both at home. At least for the first few years.”

They got to the bar, got some drinks and settled into a booth together. Sharon and Ian were telling Sam a story that had him laughing hysterically and Natasha shaking her head and grinning. Bucky slid into the booth with a beer in hand and sat next to Steve again. Steve watched Sam for a minute and chuckled to himself. Maybe Sam had a point about Steve’s obliviousness, or maybe it was just harder to tell when it was directed at him. It was very clear that Sam was interested in Natasha beyond his normal charm and gregariousness. 

“So you said you and Nat go way back?”

“Oh. Well… yes and no. Actually Nat’s my sister. But we just met a few years back, maybe 5 years ago? We’re really close in age, which says a lot about the character of our deadbeat dad extraordinaire. Natasha has our dad’s last name, although he was out of her life before she even knew who he was. He left my mom when I was about five but I’ve always had my mom’s last name.”

“Oh wow. That must have been something, meeting your sister as an adult.”

“You know, it really was! We both grew up our whole lives as only children with this shitty, mysterious Russian dad and then I’m 18 years old and, boom, I’ve got a sister. And not only that, but we have so much in common and we really get along well. I never would have expected it, but it’s been so great. Especially since I lost my mom, Natasha is my family. And her mom is amazing, she was a dancer with the Ailey company and she’s so creative and beautiful. She didn’t think twice about welcoming me into their lives and their family.”

“That’s so great,” Steve smiled back at Bucky. He asked, quietly, “You said your mom passed away? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but my mom died… wow, 3 years next month. Cancer. Sometimes it’s nice to meet people who’ve been through the same thing.”

“I know what you mean. My mom was in a car accident 2 years ago. I’m pretty fucked up about it, to be honest, but I’ve come a long way.” Bucky paused and took a deep breath, his gaze looking distant for a minute. He turned back to Steve, “Wow, I promise all my bar conversations aren’t this heavy.”

“Don’t apologize, I like talking to you and hearing about your life,” Steve said softly and then looked away, hating the way that he was most certainly blushing. His only hope was that it was dark enough in the bar that it wasn’t so noticeable. 

“I like talking to you too,” Bucky said softly, nudging Steve’s leg with his own. 

Steve hadn’t had an connection with someone like this in so long. He felt like all the nerves in his body were alive and bristling with energy. He had a nervous anticipation, like they were at the start of something big. But it wasn’t scary, like it had been with Brock or even confusing like it had been with Sam. It wasn’t just flirting, there was a level of comfort that he felt talking to Bucky, as if he’d known him his whole life. He was pretty sure that Bucky was in the same boat, and he didn’t know how he could feel so certain, but he just was. 

\-- 

Sam was halfway in love with Natasha after chatting with her for – oh about 45 minutes. He always fell fast and hard. He couldn’t get a good read on her, though. He didn’t even know if she was into dudes at all. But she was gorgeous and funny and so, so smart. He always envied people who were quick thinkers. He had to really chew on things and take his time to figure out exactly what he thought or felt. She seemed to have a thoughtful answer for everything in the blink of an eye. It was part of what made her good at her job, he realized. 

They wrapped up the evening and waved off Sharon and Ian, who looked like they were heading home for one of those half-drunk, giggly fucks that you can only have with someone you’ve been seeing for a while. Sam missed those terribly. He hadn’t been in a real relationship since – shit, maybe Jay. He wondered how he was doing these days. 

Natasha looked at the time on her phone and groaned, explaining that she had to be up early for a workout. “Alright, I’m out. Need to get my beauty rest. James, you coming?”

Bucky nodded, but was still looking at Steve. “Be there in a sec,” he said to Natasha. 

Sam watched Bucky and Steve get their phones out to exchange numbers. Steve had surprisingly decent game tonight, Sam was pretty impressed. 

Sam turned to Natasha and gave her a soft smile. “So maybe we should exchange numbers too. Just in case.”

“In case of what, exactly,” Natasha asked, but she looked amused.

“What if we both lose our white boys in the middle of a big crowd? We’d never find them in this town. Better that we can get in touch with each other directly.”

Natasha laughed, loud and sharp, before shaking her head and nodding toward the direction she was headed home. “I think we’ll just have to risk it.”

Sam shrugged and smiled broadly. “Next time.” 

He and Steve walked home together quietly. Sam knew what he was thinking about and he had a good guess as to what was going through Steve’s head. Sam wondered when he’d see Natasha again and what it would take to get her number. He imagined that whatever it was, he’d be up for it.


	2. Thinkin Bout You

`Ch. 2 Thinkin Bout You

 

Steve was a little suspicious of how easy things felt with Bucky. From the very start of his life, easy wasn’t a part of how Steve experienced the world. He was born premature with underdeveloped lungs and heart problems. Apparently, his dad left while he was still in the NICU – he found that as a teenager out from his mom’s best friend. She’d gotten a little tipsy and explained that his dad (whom she still called “that dirtbag” over two decades after he left) had just up and disappeared while Steve was still in the hospital hanging on the precipice of life and death. His mom had had to go back to work a week after giving birth, but she always did everything possible to make sure he had the best she could offer. In childhood, his body was fragile from his earliest memories involved long lists of things to avoid, people to call if he was sick, and medications to remember to carry with him. Most of his childhood was spent staring at the world around him, feeling so full of thoughts, desires, and fantasies. But he was trapped by his body, a body that made him a target of bullies over and over again until they finally realized that he wasn’t going to back down. 

Medications, surgeries, and his mother’s dogged pursuit of equity for her only son helped to remove some of those limitations. Now, as long as he took his maintenance meds and kept a close watch on his symptoms, he was more or less able to keep up with the people around him. He still had a tendency to be just a little too angry, too opinionated, too passionate for people. More than one person had told him that he had too much personality for his little body. More than one person had walked away.

But here they were. Bucky had texted right away after they exchanged numbers and they basically never stopped. With the semester winding down, Steve knew his bank account was looking pretty abysmal and guessed that Bucky was in the same boat. So, he suggested dinner and a movie at his apartment. He knew it sounded like Netflix and chill... and basically was Netflix and chill. But whatever, that’s what poor grad students do for dates. 

Steve had just enough money to spring for takeout from a decent and affordable Thai restaurant around the corner. He’d save the frozen pizza and canned soup routine for once they got to know each other a little better. Steve had the takeout set out on the kitchen table and was just finishing his time-honored process of throwing all his earthly possessions into the closet to pretend that he was not actually a slob. He had gotten Sam’s feedback about what to wear –Sam recommended a bright blue long-sleeve shirt that he thought would bring out Steve’s eyes. Just as he got the shirt over his head, he heard a knock on the door. 

Bucky smiled brightly when Steve opened the door. “Come in,” Steve said, feeling surprisingly comfortable inviting this intimidatingly gorgeous man into his apartment. Bucky looked casual and delicious, in tight, well-worn dark jeans and a very soft-looking deep purple v-neck sweater. Steve wanted very much to touch it and see if it was as soft as it looked. Bucky leaned in slightly, like maybe he was wanting the same. Steve decided to go for it.

As Steve leaned in, Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve and hugged him tight. *Of course he was a good hugger. He was taller than Steve, like most people were, so Steve nestled right into his delightful chest. God, he wanted Bucky. Steve wondered if he should be embarrassed about getting hard from just a hug and decided to let go before he finds out. 

“Find the place okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky answered, staring happily at Steve. He looked like he liked what he saw and Steve’s stomach fluttered in response. 

“Should we be fancy and sit at the table or should we be true Americans and curl up on the couch and watch TV while we eat?” asked Steve, grabbing the food and turning back to Bucky.

“Definitely curl up on the couch,” Bucky answered and went into the kitchen to grab silverware and plates. He grabbed things so confidently, like he belonged in Steve’s apartment and in Steve’s life. 

They got settled in on the couch together, each turned toward each other as they ate. 

“Favorite shows?” he asked, hoping that they’d have some common interests.

“Well Parks & Rec is a classic, I can always watch that. Arrested Development, although I’ve got mixed feelings about the last season. And this is dorky, but I just binged on Supergirl after I finished a major project for school. I don’t watch too much TV otherwise, I tend to get pretty hyper-focused on school and forget about the outside world sometimes.”

“I know what you mean, I had a big end of the semester project last spring and I got totally lost in the work. When May 12th finally hit and I was done, I slept for about 36 hours and then woke up like I’d been in a fog or a coma or something.”

Steve fiddled with the Netflix menu. Their conversation was going well, but it was still nice to have something on just to ease the pressure of keeping a good talk going. He settled on Parks and Rec and hit play.

“So how’d you end up in robotics?” Steve asked as he tried to get one of the peanuts onto his otherwise perfectly proportioned bite of Pad Thai. He grew out of his peanut allergy in adolescence and now had kind of an obsession.

“Well I’ve always been into robots – you know, like most kids, I loved Transformers and I was also taking apart my toys and rebuilding them. But I had a knack for science and once I found out that you could genuinely work on robots for a living, I was hooked. My undergrad thesis advisor really pushed for grad school,” Bucky explained as he efficiently works through his spicy curry dish.

“They pushed? What did you want to do?” 

“Well grad school sounded great, but I was nervous because my dad was footing the bill for college and he’s all about making the most money possible. He wanted me working right away and thought that further degrees would be a waste of time.”

“Wow, I guess I’m lucky. My mom loved my art and always wanted this for me. I never felt pressured to make any different decisions, you know? What was that like for you?” Steve asked, watching Bucky push his food around with his fork, lost in thought.

“I mean I knew how lucky I was. My dad wasn’t really consistent on paying child support but when he did pay, it was a substantial amount money. I made it through undergrad with no student loans and I wanted to be careful about getting into debt. But my advisors really thought I had the aptitude, so I applied and figured I could decide from there. And then at the same time -- I told you that Nat and I met when we both turned 18?”

Steve nodded, waiting for Bucky to continue.

“Well, it took us a little while to figure out how to be siblings. So there I am, trying to decide what comes next and Natasha and I are getting closer. She’s telling me about times that she and her mom were living on next to nothing. Homeless for a month after her mom went through a rough break up. My dad knew about Nat, he was there when she was born, he made sure she had his name. But he sent her nothing. I’m sure he kept an eye on her – that’s exactly how he operates. And he didn’t care how they were struggling.”

Steve made a face that conveyed exactly what he thinks about that, which seemed to be a good enough response for Bucky to keep going.

“So I decided fuck him. This program has grant funding. I don’t have to pay tuition and I get a stipend. I mean I eat Ramen and bills get tight sometimes, but I don't need him anymore,” Bucky finishes, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly and a hard look in his eyes. He shakes his head and looks back at Steve: “Well that got real deep real fast, Stevie. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever told anyone all that. I guess you’re easy to talk to,” he smiled and kicked his foot out a little to hit Steve’s. “What about you, what’s your story? I know it’s an MFA but you’re a painter?” he asked, gesturing to the artwork up on the walls. 

Steve always feels a bit like a faker when he calls himself an artist. He thinks about the artists he admires, doing difficult and challenging work with a technical skill level he isn’t sure he’ll ever achieve. But sitting here with Bucky, he feels surprisingly comfortable talking about the materials he’s working with now and his goals for himself in his program. Bucky’s right, there is something so easy about being together. He’s really surprised when he hears himself talking about how art helped him to make sense of growing up without his father, but Bucky nods right along as if it all makes perfect sense. Steve decides to let himself just enjoy this feeling. Later he can spend time questioning whether he’s just setting himself up for more disappointment later on, but right now it feels surprisingly right.

\--- 

Sam was sitting at his favorite coffee shop, sitting on the ragged, but surprisingly comfortable leather couch that he always tried to claim for long study days. He wanted to give Steve the apartment for his date tonight and he could only procrastinate so much on his thesis, so this seemed as good a time as any to try to get down to it. He had a laptop open with his meticulously organized lit review folder and next to it, his pitifully brief Word document. Now, to get to writing. Any minute now. He checked the time again on his phone. Maybe, he should see what’s happening on Tumblr first, just to get him in the mood. It’s not like he would get work done anyway if he had writer’s block, right?

“This seat taken?” he heard from a familiar husky voice.

He jumped a little and dropped his phone onto the couch between his thigh and the armrest. “Hey Natasha,” he answered, hoping that the words came out smoother than he felt. He looked her up and down quickly, noticing that she was much more casually dressed than the last time, curly hair up in a ponytail and wearing athletic pants and a matching jacket. He was pretty sure that these form-fitting clothes were *made for her body, but he does his best not to stare because his momma raised him right.

She smirked and looked knowingly at his laptop and then down to where his phone was peeking out next to his leg, still lit up from him browsing. “Getting a lot done, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me. You never know, maybe I was doing crucial, life-changing research on my phone.”

“Were you?”

“Well no. But I could have been!”

“Sure you could,” she said in a patronizingly soothing voice. 

He laughed, shrugging to concede her point. “What are you doing here? You never mentioned the other day, are you a grad student?”

“Actually no, I have a real grown up job with the Student Health Center in their public health department. But I’ve got a presentation coming up on a new topic, so I needed somewhere to do some reading and prep work.“ 

Sam realized he’d been letting her stand with her hot drink in hand and moved quickly to clear the spot next to him on the couch. She set her coffee down on the end table and started pulling her work materials out of her bag. 

“What the presentation on?” he asked, noticing the words “queer theory” and “bisexual” among the titles of articles and books. 

“Well, Bi week just passed and we got feedback from the LGBT office on campus that we’ve neglected the bisexual community in some of our presentations. So, I’m working on revamping some of our talks to make sure they specifically acknowledge bisexuality. It’s harder than it sounds, most research projects and books generalize about gay and lesbian people but don’t spend much time on the B part of LGBT.”

Sam did a quick scan of the coffee shop. It was Friday night and most people are either chatting with each other or totally consumed in their laptops. It was probably safe. Plus Natasha’s brother is literally on a date with his male roommate slash kind of ex right now and she seemed neither surprised nor concerned. So he said: “Girl, don’t I know it,” with a practiced smile. He looked up at her face, trying to gauge her reaction.

“Oh you’re bi?” she asked, evenly. He guessed (hoped) that the look on her face is genuine curiosity about Sam, but again, she was hard to read.

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t really use that term per se. But I’ve dated men. Mostly men, actually, but my first love was a woman and I just don’t see gender as all that important when I make a connection with someone.”

“Yeah I know what you mean,” she said thoughtfully. “What are your thoughts on the term bisexual – if you don't mind my asking.”

“For some people, it fits them,” he said, carefully. “But for me, it feels – I don’t know, too neat. Too reductive. Plus, if we’re being real here, it’s rough out there for a bi Black boy. There are some women who will just never fuck with me knowing that I’ve been with men before.” He laughs a little, incongruously. But he can’t help thinking back to when he tried to explain this to Steve. Steve had been pissed at the idea of anyone denying Samuel Wilson his ability to call himself bisexual and went on an hilarious and kind of adorable rant about the importance of being able to claim one’s identity. Sam called Steve “Captain Bisexual” for the next month or so and it became one of their things. Whenever Steve was going on an over-the-top rant, Sam called him “Cap” and it tended to defuse things pretty well. 

“So, I tend to go with queer if anyone asks, but mostly I just follow my heart and hope that people can respect that,” he said, thinking that it’s probably obvious that he’s wondering if she’s one of the women who won’t fuck with a queer dude.

“I’m not,” Natasha said, looking at him straight in the eye with a rather kind expression.

“What?” he asked, trying to resist the urge to laugh nervously, his heart rate picking up. He plays back the conversation, wondering if he had said that aloud.

“I’m not one of those women who won’t date a guy who’s bi or queer. You’re still not getting my number, “ she said, meeting his eyes again. “But that’s not why. I want you to know that.”

“Oh,” he replied, eloquently. “That’s good to know.”

A beat passes, where they smile at each other in silence.

“So, uh, what will it take for me to get your number?” he gave her his most charming smile. The one that his first love called his “gap-toothed panty dropper.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes, put on her headphones and got to work. Okay, so no panties dropped this time, but it would happen. He was taking that smile as a win, dammit.


	3. Don't Hurt Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky continue to grow closer, but a conversation about current events leaves them questioning whether they see the world in the same way. Natasha and Steve try to help Bucky make sense of it while Sam tries not to give himself a concussion banging his head into the table. 
> 
> \--
> 
> _“Hey, that’s not fair. Maybe there’s a couple bad apples, but they’re not all bad. I’ve known some good cops. Plus it’s not like you or your nephew would act like some of those people in the videos,” Bucky spoke up._
> 
> _Three heads swiveled toward him sharply and then Steve heard a surprisingly loud thud as Sam’s head hit the table again. He turned back to see Sam lifting his head up, looking so incredibly done._
> 
> _“I don’t have it in me today. I’m getting a drink, Steve, this is all you, buddy,” Sam said magnanimously as he stepped out of the booth and headed toward the bar._
> 
> _Steve could feel the righteous anger pulsing through his veins. Normally, he’d just jump in and launch into a scathing explanation of all the problematic and frankly racist assumptions in the statement. But this was Bucky. How could he not get it?_

Steve and Bucky were already sitting as Natasha slid into the booth at the bar. Steve and Bucky had only been dating a few weeks, but it was already becoming routine to meet up with Sam and Natasha for dollar beers at their favorite dive bar on Fridays. 

“Hey Steve,” she said sweetly. She turned to Bucky, dropped her voice into exaggerated frat dude register and said: “Sup brah?” while giving him a pretty firm looking punch on the shoulder.

“Ow, Nat,” Bucky complained shaking his head. He turned to Steve, who was looking at them curiously, and explained: “It started as an inside joke where we were making fun of how people on TV always remind everyone of their relationships to each other, like way too often, walking in and saying ‘Hey brother,’ ‘or Hi little sis,’ when they should obviously just use each others’ names. At some point it devolved into just imitating ‘frat boy man love,’ as Nat calls it.” He rolled his eyes but looked at over at her affectionately.

Nat cackled in response and said: “You love me, bro.” She shifted her attention toward Steve and asked: “Where’s Sam? He seems like the punctual type.” 

“He definitely is and he hasn’t texted me yet,” Steve answered, pulling out his phone to check. 

Sure enough, the door to the bar swung open and Sam rushed in, looking more harried than usual. He sat down at the table in a huff, gave half-hearted waves to everyone and said: “God, I need a drink” before abruptly letting his head fall onto the table with a thud.”

“Hey man, what's wrong,” Steve asked, concerned. Sam was honestly usually pretty great at stress management, since it was, you know, his career and all.

Sam turned a little toward Steve, his shoulders tight and hunched, and sighed: “I was working late at the counseling center because my supervisor got into a situation and then was late to our meeting. Then I get home and my sister’s texting me – you know, she’s 6 months pregnant now and they’re having a boy – and she’s talking about Tyre King and Tamir Rice and what’s going to happen to her son out in the world and I don’t know what to tell her. I’m just trying to stay alive myself with the cops. So. Sorry I’m late,” Sam finished, taking a deep breath and looking around the table, visibly trying to bring himself back into the conversation. “Hi Natasha, hi Bucky, hey Steve.”

“Sorry Sam, that sounds really shitty. Anything we can do?” Steve asked, knowing there wouldn’t be really, but hating the injustice in the world.

“No, this is good,” Sam answered, taking a few deep breaths and letting some of his tension go.

“Fuck the police,” Steve said sympathetically and Natasha nodded along.

“Hey, that’s not fair. Maybe there’s a couple bad apples, but they’re not all bad. I’ve known some good cops. Plus it’s not like you or your nephew would act like some of those people in the videos,” Bucky spoke up.

Three heads swiveled toward him sharply and then Steve heard a surprisingly loud thud as Sam’s head hit the table again. He turned back to see Sam lifting his head up, looking so incredibly done.

“I don’t have it in me today. I’m getting a drink, Steve, this is all you, buddy,” Sam said magnanimously as he stepped out of the booth and headed toward the bar. 

Steve could feel the righteous anger pulsing through his veins. Normally, he’d just jump in and launch into a scathing explanation of all the problematic and frankly racist assumptions in the statement. But this was Bucky. How could he not get it?

Natasha spoke first. “James. Your perspective on the police and what’s fair and unfair is going to be different because you’re White,” she started, and there was a sharpness to her tone, but she kept her voice level. Steve found himself again envying her self-control. “There’s a long history of the police being used to keep Black people in line in this country. When you talk about people needing to ‘act right’ so that the police don’t immediately execute them in the street, you’re buying into this belief that Black people don’t have the right to their humanity in the way that White people do. You told me a story about your friend Brad punching a cop while high on ‘shrooms. What happened to him? The cop kept him overnight and dropped the charges in the morning because he was a ‘good dude.’” 

“Exactly, if you are just respectful and calm, things don’t have to escalate like that!” Bucky’s face was flushed and he was looking down and pulling at the sleeves of his shirt. “I just – I mean, what, do you think that laws in our country have no meaning? Police officers have hard jobs and I won’t apologize for respecting the work they do to keep us all safe.”

“Bucky, I get why you want to see it that way, but that’s dangerously naïve.” Steve answered, trying (and failing) to emulate some of Natasha’s calm. “If it really were just a few bad apples, why is the system so committed to protecting them instead of firing them? Even a minimal response, like suspension without pay and intensive mandatory retraining would show some systemic concern about public executions of brown and black people. Instead these officers get pay raises and gofundme accounts to make sure white supremacy stays unchallenged.” Steve was on a roll now, getting louder and more animated. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt worried too. He’d lost relationships before because he could never let things go, he always _had_ to argue with people about their (incredibly problematic) views. “And besides, how could you possibly know how Sam or anyone else would act in this situation? Having a gun pointed at you? Knowing that those officers have killed people like you before and that they see you as something less than human?” 

“Whatever, I don’t understand why you guys are attacking me about this. "You’re acting like I’m some kind of I don’t know—a racist just for not stereotyping all police as being bad. I guess I’m just not as cynical as you are and I don’t know how accusing good people of being racist helps anything.”

“Helping so-called ‘good people’ see how they’re complicit in racist systems is exactly the point, Bucky,” Steve responded. “It’s like when straight people say that they have nothing against gay people, but ‘why do we have to kiss in public’ or get married, or remind them of our queerness. Those attitudes create indifference toward public policies that strip us of our humanity and of our civil rights.” 

“I don't know, I just don’t think it’s the same thing, Steve,” Bucky responded, shaking his head. 

\--- 

Sam sat at the bar with his much-needed beer in hand. He swiveled around on his stool for a minute to look back at the booth. He wasn’t up for this conversation today, but he knew that Steve could push back on this kind of nonsense. He wasn’t so sure where Natasha stood, though. He sat watching their body language. Bucky wouldn’t make eye contact and he was spending most of the conversation shaking his head. Steve looked tense, but his eyes were bright and he looked focused. He always talked with his hands, but during conversations like this, it got even more exaggerated. Natasha was an interesting one. She looked calm, actually, if just a tad formal, sitting with perfect posture and her head raised high. She had her hands on the table, crossed over one another, and her eyes followed the conversation. Even when she spoke, everything stayed even and she looked incredibly calm. Yeah, she was letting Bucky know what was up, he would bet his meager fortune on it. 

Sam had just turned back to the bar, deciding to enjoy his solace a little longer, when he heard some shuffling and hushed voices. He couldn’t imagine Steve getting aggressive with Bucky, but he also did _not_ want to pull that boy out of another fight, so he turned back quickly. Thankfully, it was just Bucky getting up to walk out the door. Steve moved to follow, but Natasha grabbed his arm and said something that stopped him. _That’s a good thing,_ Sam thought. Steve never really understood that most people need time to cool down and process after an argument. He always tended to keep going and going and it often made things worse. 

Sam decided to walk over, just in case there needed to be a second voice on team “Dear God, Steve, do not follow people around and tell them they’re wrong over and over.” He got back to the table and slid into the booth.

“So, that went well.” 

Steve snorted and Natasha let out a little chuckle with the breath she had been holding. 

“Honestly, I think this was good for James. He just needs some time to walk around and let everything he just heard sink in. He’ll come around.”

“I take it this hasn’t come up before?” Sam asked, genuinely curious. He knows his family had always tended to be more on the activist / social consciousness side of things, but that wasn’t true for everyone.

“Not really,” she answered, but didn't elaborate. And that was fine. Sam could see how talking about your White brother’s latent racist beliefs might be more third date conversation territory. 

Sam tried to sort back through his day, thinking about what he could and couldn’t share. He’d always been kind of an open book, but now that he was in his 3rd year of his doc program, a lot of his time was spent doing clinical work that was all confidential. He loved what he did, but sometimes he missed the lighthearted shit-talking he could do at the end of the day when he was working retail. He decided to go with the classic therapist move and get someone else talking instead. 

“What were you up to today Natasha?”

She looked at him and gave a brief smile before answering: “Gave a talk to a sorority about sexual health. Worked on a grant proposal for NIH funds. The usual.”

“How’d that go?” Steve asked, finally perking up from his forlorn Bucky watch he’d gotten caught up in and turning away from the door. 

Sam was listening, really he was, but he just… sometimes watching Natasha’s lips move was mesmerizing. He thought that if he also listened to her talking about a) sex and b) her extreme competence at her job, he’d probably fall in love/lust instantly. So instead, he let his attention drift a bit and enjoyed looking at her face. He wondered if she’d slap his hand if he messed with her curls the way his high school girlfriend did when they were fooling around. It’d taken a few lectures about the amount of time it took her to get her hair done for him to finally stop. He’d be willing to risk a few slaps to see if Natasha’s hair was as soft as it looked. Her curls had just a hint of red in them if the light caught them right, and Sam found it all very intriguing. 

Sam blinked, startled, as Natasha turned back to him and gave him a quick, teasing smile that let him know she knew what he was doing. He couldn’t help but smile back. His peers and his clients always told him he was totally transparent with his feelings, and he could just imagine how he looked, smiling adoringly at Natasha in this skeezy bar while Steve earnestly interrogated her about the grant writing process for sexual health projects. But with Natasha smiling back at him like that, he really wasn’t sure he cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That was a long break between chapters. I couldn't even bring myself to look at this fic in the wake of the U.S. election of he-who-shall-not-be-named to our presidency. It's been a rough few months and it's going to be a rough few years, but here we are. Life keeps going, and I'll keep writing the fic I want to see in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic... ever. If you choose to comment, please be gentle. I haven't written anything non-academic since I was maybe 10. But I've been inspired by the talent and generosity in fanfic and thought I'd try my hand at it. Thanks for reading!


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